If only there was a support group for this greatest chink in my chink-filled suit of armor.
From the moment my first grade teacher Sister Amobolese appraised my red face streaked with playground dirt and shrieked that I was a “Zulu” to the moment I felt I was being squeezed on line calls in a “fun” tennis mixer, I have had issues with competition.
The zenith of this disease displayed itself during the City of Dearborn Recreation Basketball League Red Division Championship Game ( long titles like that are a clue to the importance of the game). We were matched against a team of young Arab-Americans (I could pretend that the ethnicities involved made no difference, but I try not to bullshit on these pages), and we were getting our ass handed to us.
With two seconds left in the game, and the good guys trailing by a zillion points, our opponents called time out. Any ref with his shit together would have expected hijinks and called the game. But, out from the huddle both teams came. When the whistle blew to resume the game, the other team laid down on the court, relaxing as if they were on a sofa watching Al-Jazeera television, and rolled the ball into play.
As luck would have it, the ball found its way to me. I casually picked it up and started to walk off the court, the game having ended. It would have been so easy to continue out of the gym and into a nearby pub to drown our sorrows, but I am not about easy or competing for the sake of competition. I was pissed that we got killed and more pissed at being punked.
About ten feet from the scorers table, I looked over at the shit walking off the court next to me with the smile on his fucking face and tossed the ball off the side of his head with much gusto (I am getting mad and anxious typing this). All hell broke loose. Both teams began shoving and pushing, there was a wall of angry faces in front of me. Tony decided I needed help and stood between me and the angry mob. A punch came out of nowhere, landed on the side of his head and things kicked up a notch.
It ended with both teams spilling into the parking lot, an asshole from their team swinging around a tire iron and the Dearborn Police riding to the rescue.
A couple important issues related to that night:
I was not living in Dearborn at that time and was playing under my friend, and Dearborn resident, Jim Thomas’ name. Imagine his surprise at receiving a letter from the City of Dearborn informing him that he was no longer welcome to participate in Dearborn sports. Sorry, Jim.
Tony has always had and will always have my back, no matter how wrong I am and no matter what trouble my big mouth leads us into. If you take one of us on, you deal with two.
I can’t participate in competitive sport. I quit golf cold turkey, don’t play in “fun” tennis mixers and avoid all adult sport leagues. I am the original bad sport.
Relax, I’m getting around to the bar review thing. While I have ditched sport for reasons of competition, I understand that competition exists in other aspects of life. This includes writing and bar reviews (I know that the link is tenuous, but the basketbrawl thing is a great story). I cannot believe that these reviews and blogs are not getting more love. Not one email, not one random comment, not even a “You are an asshole”. A fucking donut hole. My reviews are way better than those you might find in Real Detroit or Metromix or other web pages. Get with it people, I’m doing my job, now do yours.
This past Friday found Tony and I traveling to Wyandotte, to visit Lions, Tigers and Beers on Biddle in Downtown Wyandotte. For the record, I was willing to set aside the shit name, ignore the television looping Wizard of Oz, and give this place a fair shot.
Plenty of street side and municipal parking around the bar, though that might not always be the case during the busier summer months. No cover to enter, no hassle with dress codes. The first thing that annoyed me, in what was to become a long list of annoyances, was the lighting of the bar. I don’t work well with the bright lights. Every age spot, ear hair and eye bag could be clearly seen from the farthest reaches.
Next up on the list of annoyance was the arrival of the super nacho platter for the group sitting next to us. The smell of onion was so strong, it threatened to overtake Tony’s extra strength cologne.
This brings us to the service, or lack thereof. Getting a waitress to stop proved tough, and when we finally flagged one down, she managed to make a bad situation worse by being huffy. On the next round, Tony decided to go to the bar to order and was rewarded by the barmaid throwing his change back to him. Money actually traveled through the air. My bro is generous to a fault, but this bitch got nada.
Finally, and most annoyingly, the crowd. A bunch of late twenty something, white, frat boys and girls wearing hip hop duds and acting the fool. News of the dangers of steroid abuse haven’t reached the guys in this bar, who took preening to a new level. Don’t feel left out ladies, you held your own. One tart dancing ten feet from me decided to assume the doggy position and back her ass up against her partner. It failed to draw a reaction from this sad sack, who was too busy flaring his triceps and tousling his hair to notice. A smart ass in the crowd tried to make it rain (drizzle?) on this chick by tossing a single her way. When she failed to notice, he sheepishly walked onto the dance floor and retrieved his buck. A perfect round robin of asshole behavior.
Leave it to Tony to sum up the bar by noting that the patrons looked like rejects from the Tool Academy, and by saying aloud as we left, “Lions and Tigers and Beers...Oh No!”
Even though there is something delicious about an annoying bar, like the final days of a nice scab, we felt the need for a better end to the evening. We decided to hit Shot Makers Bar and Grill on Dix in Southgate. It sits between Northline and Goddard amongst many other dive bars and small businesses. We stopped in the week before, so we knew what to expect.
Expect no cover, no dress code and no pretension. The place was packed on our first outing, much less so the second time around. Either way, getting a drink is a snap. The waitresses hustle and the big ruddy dude behind the bar is professional beyond his years. On our second visit, he remembered our beer preference, gave us a buy back on the first round, saving us six bucks, and making us feel like regulars.
The bar has a nice vibe. There is, of course, seating at the bar. But, the majority of the patrons sit at long banquet type tables. This promotes a lot of mingling, as you may find yourself getting intimate with your new found bar buddies whether you like it or not. The crowd was ready for a good time, all ages were represented. You might expect (I certainly did) a pretty rough looking crowd, but such was not the case. Though the neighborhood around the bar can be a bit dicey, the patrons were shined up in their Friday night best.
The live band did a good job keeping spirits up, when they decided to play. They took the longest break between sets, but did manage to sing Johnny Cash and Oasis without sounding like assholes. The volume was at a manageable level and allowed for a decent amount of mingling. Keno and sports worked the perimeter.
I expected very little going in, but ended up finding a friendly bar that you could feel comfortable taking a date to. I gave it one of the highest compliments I could think of by noting to Tony as we were leaving after our initial visit, “It’s the downriver version of Rosie O’Grady’s.” I was only half in the bag at the time.
Cheers!
-Jim
Lions & Tigers & Beers: 2929 Biddle St. Wyandotte, MI 48192
Shot Makers: 12045 Dix/Toledo Rd. Southgate, MI 48195
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